“I, too, will go to the war with the soldiers,” he said, in a low voice, and without wasting a moment he pushed his way between the troops, who, now that they were approaching the station, began to close up the ranks. He found himself by the side of a young blond soldier, who seemed more lonely and sad than the others.
“Will you take me with you?” Pinocchio asked, pulling at his coat.
“Where?”
“To the war.”
“You? Are you crazy?”
“No, indeed.”
“And you ask me to take you with me?”
“Whom, then, must I ask?”
“There is the guard down there, that one with a blue scarf over his shoulder.”
When Pinocchio got an idea in his head he had to work it out at any cost. So he repeated his demand to the lieutenant of the guard, who, smiling under his mustache, pointed out the captain inspecting the troops. But the captain could decide nothing without the consent of the battalion commander, who, for his part, would have had to ask the approval of the colonel. He advised Pinocchio to hasten matters by going to the adjutant, who could present his request directly to the general.
They were now in the station. The soldiers took their places in the huge cars, around which crowded their families, friends, and the cheering, curious throng. At the end of the train some first-class carriages were attached into which the orderlies carried the hand-baggage of their higher officers. In front of one compartment reserved for one of these was piled up a regular mountain of small objects—little packages, boxes, rugs, furs, which a cavalry soldier was trying to carry inside. The adjutant, a few feet away, was looking on, trembling with impatience and vexation.
“Quick! Quick! You lazybones! Quick! Quick! Mollica. General Win-the-War will be here in a minute and his things are not yet inside. I’ll put you under arrest for a fortnight.”
“I respectfully beg the adjutant to observe that I have only two hands for the service of my general and of my country.”
“And I beg you to observe that the train is about to start off.”
“If the adjutant would order some one to give me a hand…”
“There isn’t any one to be had, confound it!”
Just at that moment Pinocchio advanced resolutely toward the adjutant to put forward his request to be enlisted.
“Mr. Adjutant…I have come…to…”
The adjutant didn’t let Pinocchio say another word, but caught hold of him under the chin, squeezed him, shook him gently…and said:
“Good! I understand…you want to do something for the army.… Good boy! You are the best kind of a volunteer. Fine! Help Private Mollica to carry in all this stuff and your country will be grateful to you. And you, Mollica, hurry up. I beg you to observe that now you have the four hands you requested for the job. We understand each other, heh?”
Then he was off toward a group of soldiers who were chalking on the door of one of the railway carriages in large letters: “Through Train—Venice—Trieste—Vienna.” A big crowd had gathered around, stopping the traffic.
“Ho, boys, who told you to write through train? Next time ask permission from your superior officer.… There will be a little stop before we get there.”
“Doesn’t matter, sir, as long as we getthere.”
“Well! You can tell when a train leaves, but not whether it will ever arrive.”
“Hurrah for Italy!”
“Good boys! I like that. But rub out what you have written. You are first-class soldiers, you are. We understand each other, heh?” And off he went.
With Pinocchio’s aid Private Mollica performed miracles. In a few minutes the general’s things were inside, beautifully arranged in the baggage-racks.
“You are a prodigy, boy, I tell you. You have done me a great service and my adjutant will be so pleased that if you will promise to keep guard here a moment I will go to tell him so that he can thank you in the general’s name.”
“Go along; I’ll stay,” Pinocchio replied, and took up a position in front of the door that was so soldierly you might have taken him for a distant relative of Napoleon the Great before St. Helena.
But a minute had not gone by and Mollica had not got a hundred steps away when Pinocchio turned as pale as death and trembled so with fright that he almost fell off the step. He had caught sight a short way off of General Win-the-War surrounded by a crowd of officers; and with his marvelous vision had recognized in him Papa Geppetto’s furious tenant, whose stained glass he had shattered a few hours before, all on account of saucy Coccorito.
He was lost; there was no possible way of escape! Win-the-War was coming direct to his compartment and the adjutant was guiding him. The crowd in the way divided before him and the soldiers stood stiffly at attention. Even Mollica stood there straight as a ramrod.… Pinocchio gave a leap into the compartment, hoping to escape by the opposite door. But it was not possible to open it.… He heard the sound of the approaching steps, the ring of the spurs.… Pinocchio flung himself down on the floor of the compartment and hid himself, face downward, under one of the seats.
The general, a colonel, and the adjutant got in. A band struck up the national air; thousands of voices cheered the King, Italy, and the Army. The soldiers responded with youthful courage.… You heard a continual medley of good-bys and good wishes, and the quick, sharp repetition of commands. A hundred voices were singing, “Farewell, my dear one, farewell”; a hundred others sang Garibaldi’s Hymn.… There was a profound silence in the compartment. Perhaps the superior officers felt the great responsibility of the moment and were moved by it. Pinocchio didn’t dare breathe for fear of betraying himself, but in his breast the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock beat so loudly that he thought it must resound all along the wooden walls of the carriage. The notes of the national air seemed to be quicker…the cries of the crowd louder…the locomotive whistled shrilly a desperate good-by…the train began to move.…
“Gentlemen,” said the general to his two companions, “let Italy’s fate now be fulfilled. To-morrow we shall cross the frontier, for the glory of our King and for the greatness of our country. Long live Italy!”
There was so much emotion in the old soldier’s voice that Pinocchio felt as if a rope were strangling his throat. When the train was under way, rumbling noisily along the rails, he burst out crying and discovered that he had a heart just as if he were a real boy!
CHAPTER II
How Pinocchio Recognized the Advantages of His Wooden Body
“So, Colonel, you understand? This afternoon we shall be at——(censor); we shall bivouac the troops; to-morrow morning at two we must be on the march. We shall cross the frontier at——(censor) and we shall descend toward——. I expect rapid and united advance until we encounter serious opposition. Remind the soldiers of the respect due to property in the conquered lands and to the beaten foes taken prisoners.… I have been told by the commander-in-chief that it has been discovered that there is a host of spies who are working to injure us. I command you to be very severe with spies caught in the act, no matter what their age, race, or social standing. Tell your officers to keep absolutely secret all orders which they receive. If there is the slightest suspicion that an order relating to our advance has reached the ear of a person suspected even in the slightest degree, take him out, stand him with his face to the wall, and give him eight bullets in his back. You understand—without fear of consequences or that you may be mistaken. It would be better than to allow—let us suppose such a case—a whole regiment to be destroyed.”
Pinocchio, who had been beginning to enjoy the adventure, the swaying of the train, which, as he lay on his face, tickled his stomach, and the conversation of the general, which greatly interested him, was so terrified at these words that his body felt like goose-flesh. For a moment he thought he would faint. His ears rang lo
udly and he burst into a sweat. Heigh-ho! The general was not a man to say such things as a joke: “If there is the slightest suspicion that an order relating to our advance has reached the ear of a person suspected even in the slightest degree, take him out, stand him with his face to the wall, and give him eight bullets in his back.” It was clear. As clear as it could be! Instead of a single order, Pinocchio had overheard a number…they would certainly take him for a spy, and most certainly the eight bullets would not be lacking.
“Eight!” he exclaimed to himself as soon as he had managed to grow a little calmer. “Eight! One would be enough for me, and even that would be too much! But I don’t want to die with bullets in my back.… I am not a spy at all. Well…how can I persuade that orang-outang that I am in this compartment and under this seat for no other purpose than to go to war against my country’s enemies, and because the authorities certainly wouldn’t let me go in a more decent way? And suppose he recognizes me as the one who smashed his stained-glass window that opened out on his terrace, instead of eight bullets, he will order me a couple of dozen.… What a pity! Poor me! Poor Papa Geppetto, what will he say about me? But, to sum it up, I am not a spy, and when any one wants to pretend to be what he is not he must find out the way to show them that he is not what they believe him to be.… The best way, I think, would be to slip off quietly. No one saw me come in here…all I have to do is to get out without any one’s seeing me. It can’t be very difficult to do that; I’ll just stay quietly until the train gets to its destination, then let these gentlemen step out, and a minute later I’ll fade away.”
If you could have poked your head under the seat and seen Pinocchio’s face at this moment you would have been made happy by his joyful smile. This little bit of reasoning had so quieted his mind that if they had pressed eight muskets against his back to shoot the famous eight bullets into him he would have begun to laugh as if they were doing it only to tickle him.
He stretched himself out slowly, and, lulled by the swaying of the train, was soon overcome by such a tranquil slumber that he couldn’t have slept better in his own little bed.
“Poor Pinocchio!” I think I hear you say. “What is going to happen to him now?” Yes, that’s the way. It is the usual rule in this world that when a person thinks he can enjoy a moment of blessed repose some misfortune is lying in wait for him. If Pinocchio, instead of letting himself be overcome with sleep, had kept his eyes and ears open while the train was slowing down and the locomotive ahead was puffing noisily he would have heard General Win-the-War let out a yell of pain. Of course, he should have kept it back, but in time of war we pardon certain things, particularly when a general about to make an attack suffers from the torture of rheumatic sciatica, an old trouble of his.
“What’s the matter, General?”
“My leg. My pain has come back; it’s worse than an Austrian bullet.”
“Perhaps you have taken a little cold.”
“Perhaps.… It doesn’t seem warm here, for a fact, does it, Colonel?”
“No, indeed.”
“We are in the mountains and still climbing, and the temperature is going down.”
“Gracious me! so it is. They ought…Major, do me the favor at the next stop to ask if it is possible to heat the compartment. If the rest of you don’t like the heat you can just go into the next compartment.”
“The idea!”
At the next stop, which was not long in coming, the colonel asked permission of his superior officer to go off for an inspection of his men, and the major went off to see about heat for his commanding officer. It was not a hard matter to obtain what he wanted. The general was traveling in an up-to-date carriage, one of those that have under the seats special steam coils which can be connected with the exhaust pipes of the locomotive’s boiler, and, by a simple adjustment, begin to send out heat immediately.
The signal for departure had already been given when the major returned joyfully to the compartment.
“Well?”
“The connection is made and we have heat on.”
“Or rather we shall have it, because just now…”
“Excuse me, General, all we have to do is to push that handle where the sign says ‘cold’ and ‘hot’ and…”
The general, who was following the maneuver attentively, uttered an “Oh!” of relief as if the compartment were suddenly transformed into a hothouse, and stretched his legs out comfortably, resting his feet on the opposite seat.
I can’t tell you where Pinocchio’s thoughts were at this moment. But I can assure you that he was dreaming and that they must have been pleasant dreams, because there was a beautiful smile on his face. But suddenly the expression changed to one strange and painful. Perhaps in his dreams, while he was seated at a table that was spread with the most delicious dainties, he felt himself slipping down, down, and suddenly found himself on a hot gridiron with St. Lawrence in person. It is certain that when he opened his eyes it was impossible to breathe the air beneath the seat, and where his back touched it, it was hot enough to bake a loaf of bread. He started to jump out, but caught sight, right in front of his nose, of the little wheels in the adjutant’s spurs. The sight of these brought him back to his real situation.
“But what is the matter?” he said to himself. “Is the axle of the wheel on fire? And can I keep from burning? But if they notice it, too? If no one moves that means that there is no danger…but, Heavens! it burns! Ouch! I am covered with sweat, but I have got to stand it.… If I get out there will be the eight bullets in my back. Poor me! How much better it would be if I were still nothing but a wooden puppet!”
Well, I can’t help him. It’s too much for me. It would indeed have been convenient at that moment to be made of wood, for he was in a situation such as no one would wish for any creature of flesh and blood—for me or you, for instance. He had either to stand being steamed on the boiling pipe of the heating apparatus or to give himself up into the hands of the general, who wouldn’t delay long the threatened shooting.
Pinocchio was a hero, also a regular martyr, because he stood the torture more than half an hour, turning himself from side to side, moving restlessly, and drawing up his body in one way and another like the aforesaid St. Lawrence of blessed memory, the only difference being that the saint expected to be well cooked on one side and then to turn over and be cooked on the other; while Pinocchio, when he discovered that a certain part of him was about to be cooked in earnest, let out a loud scream and followed it by calls for “Help! help!”
General Win-the-War and the adjutant jumped to their feet like jacks-in-the-box, threw themselves down on the ground, and, without paying any attention to the blow on the heads they gave each other, ran their arms under the seat, and with outstretched hands seized hold of Pinocchio and dragged him out. They nearly tore him in two like a tender chicken, one pulling him on one side and one on the other.
“You wretch!”
“You scoundrel!”
“Who are you?”
“Speak, you miserable creature!”
“General, he is a spy.”
“We must question him in German…he must be an Austrian.”
“Wer sind Sie?”
No answer.
“What language do you speak, you little beast?”
Poor Pinocchio couldn’t even draw a long breath. The general clutched him by the collar with such a military firmness that he turned the color of a ripe cherry. A little more and he would have been strangled to death.
The adjutant saved him by respectfully bidding the general remember that in questioning a prisoner it is necessary to allow him to breathe if you wish an answer.
“Mr. General…forgive me. I am not a spy. It would be a real crime if you had me shot…just as soon as we arrive at… Give me a gun and I will go to war with the troops.”
“Oh, you wretch! So you listened to all we said?”
“How could I help it? I was under here when the train started. It was I who helped Private Mollica to put all your stuff inside.”
“Even this leather case?”
“Certainly I, I myself.”
“Even the despatch-case with the plans! Major, give me your revolver so that I can shoot him like a dog.”
“But why do you want to shoot me, Mr. General? I haven’t done anything.… I wanted to go to the war to hear the cannon, but I never spied on any one, not even when I went to school.… Can you really take me for a Boche? No, for gracious’ sake, no.… Look at my features.… No, no, no, for Heaven’s sake! Keep your weapon quiet.… Don’t you know who I am?… I am Pinocchio, Papa Geppetto’s Pinocchio…who only this morning broke your stained-glass window.…”
At that point the general uttered such a roar that Pinocchio felt his breath leave him. But he saw the officer hand back the pistol to the major and take up from the seat a big leather bag; then he didn’t see the bag again, but he felt it several times and with great force exactly on the part of his body which had suffered the most from the heat of the steam coil.… But Pinocchio was saved by his sincerity. General Win-the-War could certainly not have bothered to beat a real spy, but I can tell you that at that moment Pinocchio would have preferred to be still a wooden puppet.
CHAPTER III
How Pinocchio Sent a Solemn Protest to Francis Joseph to Rectify an Official Bulletin
The Pinocchio Megapack: 4 Classic Puppet Tales Page 22
